


Spa Day with Bobo

by ifinkufreaky



Series: Under the Coat [5]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Crack, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Seduction, Smut, gender undefined, imagine yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 21:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19028092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: Possibly the best prompt I have ever received. Imagine Bobo overhearing that you're treating yourself to a spa night at home, and him showing up while you're in the bath 'to help you relax.'Sex/gender of the reader is left unspecified, so everyone can enjoy a sexy seductive Bobo del Rey





	Spa Day with Bobo

What a day. Wynonna and the rest of her crew might prefer to blow off steam from that kind of clusterfuck with a bucket of beers at Shorty’s, but as for you, all you want to do is wash this demon goo off you with a power sander… and then re-hydrate and replenish with your entire home spa routine. You told them all as much, before retreating solo to the little house you’ve been renting on the quiet side of town.

You probably exfoliated 5 layers of epidermis off in the shower, but at least now you’ve got the heavy-duty cleansing out of the way.  Your pore-opening face mask and full-body moisturizer are ready on the bathroom counter, but before you get to that step you decide to ease your aching muscles by setting the stopper in the drain and filling up the bathtub for a little soak. It’s too bad you didn’t think to set yourself up with a bottle of wine within easy reach of the tub first.

As you let the hot water loosen your muscles, you find your mind wandering. The strangest thing about today wasn’t even the monster you all had obliterated. It was the fact that Bobo del Rey and his gang of revenants had actually been fighting alongside you and the Earp crew this time. Working with him was… weird. He had a surprisingly useful amount of information about the occult, and local history, but it all came out garbled and sideways. It was almost cute, really, if you could get past the hyper-aggressive attitude he spat out between helpful tidbits and actually-useful ideas. By the time the demon exploded in a ball of stinking slime, you had almost felt a little bit of friendly camaraderie with Bobo. You can still feel the way his hand clapped on the back of your neck, a gesture that at the first moment had felt affectionate.

Turned out, he was just trying to pull you away from the monster’s corpse, knowing it was about to spew hell goo everywhere in a twelve foot radius. Maybe he was just using you as a human shield against it, but you could have sworn he said ‘watch out’ just before he tugged you closer to himself.

You sink deeper into the bath, sacrificing leg coverage to get that hot water on your aching neck. And maybe to erase the feeling of Bobo’s grasping fingers. Thoughts of the enemy are not supposed to give you the sort of dreamy longing that just tugged at your chest.

You shoot up when you hear your front door creaking open. Then it slams shut. A masculine voice calls your name through the house, playful and friendly. The way it stretches around the syllables in unmistakable. Bobo del Rey is in your fucking house. Looking for you.

The kitchen floor squeaks as he steps across it. “Yoo-hoo, Y/N,” he calls again. What the fuck are you supposed to do now? You’re naked in the bathtub; you didn’t even bring any clothes in here. You could stay silent, try to pretend you’re not home, but from the tone of Bobo’s voice he seems pretty sure you’re there. “Heard about your little spa night,” he says, voice loud and a little amused, coming now from your living room. “I brought supplies.”

It’s a small house. By the time Bobo crosses the living room, all that’s left is the bathroom to his left and your bedroom to the right. The back of your neck tingles as you imagine him standing there, filling up the threshold to the back hallway, looking in one direction at your disheveled bed, the clothes on the floor, and then turning his face to the closed door with the light coming from underneath it.

The game’s up. You should probably say something. “Um, what?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

The doorknob turns and you shriek, grabbing at the shower curtain so Bobo won’t be able to see anything but your face as he barges right into the tiny room.

Bobo grins when he spots you, face just above the rim of the tub with the sheet of semi-opaque plastic tucked tight under your chin. He leans his hip against the counter and brandishes the “supplies” he’s brought. A bottle of red wine in one hand, a giant bag of M&Ms in the other.

“You’re in my house.” It’s so strange to see him like this. He still moves with a swagger, but his usual edge of malice is gone. Like the monster under the bed decided tonight it just wanted to relax and hang out.

Bobo’s head tilts to the side. “This spa idea sounded so nice, I just had to invite myself to the party. My skin’s been feeling really dry lately.” He turns to look at himself in your bathroom mirror, setting the candy on the counter so he can swipe one paw down the side of his face. He snatches up your package of face mask goo, peering at it dramatically to examine the label. “Is this good for combination skin?”

“Um, I think?” you answer dumbly. “It’s noncomedogenic.” You should be telling him to get the hell out, but once again you’re struck by how cute Bobo is when he’s not threatening everyone in sight. His face is almost soft as he examines his pores in your mirror, the handsome lines of his eyebrows arching up in concentration. Suddenly your bath water feels like it’s getting hotter. “So… you promise you’re not here to kill me.”

Bobo hops his butt up to sit on the counter, then angles his head as he looks down at you. “Why would I do that? We’re teammates now, remember?”

You don’t believe he believes that for a second, but you’re really hoping you can trust that just for tonight, he doesn’t have any ulterior motive. “This isn’t the beginning of some crazy hostage plot,” you doublecheck, with a skeptical upturn to your voice. “Because I’m not really worth much to anybody. You’d really be wasting your time, just making Wynonna hate you worse than she already does.”

Bobo straightens up, puts his hand over his heart. “I’m not up to anything. Just to help you relax. And hopefully getting some fresher-looking skin, too.” He turns to the mirror again. “You got any kind of peel around here?”

This is too bizarre. “Uh, the mask is supposed to take care of that,” you answer, still feeling like your head is spinning. But… as your eyes run down the stylishly shaved side of your intruder’s head, admiring the lines of his muscular neck, you think that you kind of like the feeling. “OK. You can stay.” Bobo flashes you a wide grin in response, catching your eye through the mirror. “But you gotta step out for a minute.”

He looks back at you quizzically.

“I’m not getting out of this tub with you just standing there.”

The phrase ‘shit-eating grin’ has never been so personified. “I can hold your towel!” He grabs one off the rack and flips it out wide for you.

You roll your eyes. “Out.”

At the disappointed pout he shoots you before moving to comply, you realize there might in fact be at least one ulterior motive to Bobo’s presence here tonight. And you’re not even sure if you’re mad about it.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, you’re in shorts and a tank under your favorite jersey knit robe, bending over Bobo who’s relaxing on your couch in the much puffier, plush white bathrobe you keep in the back of your closet. You can’t quite believe it even fits him. But his fur coat smelled a little bit too much like demon goo; after you wrinkled your nose in complaint he promised you he’d take it to a dry cleaner tomorrow before chucking it onto the front porch to air out.

You already can’t recall what excuse Bobo used to get you to apply his face mask for him; now he’s sitting with his arms spread along the back of the couch like a king while you carefully rub little circles into the skin around his eyes. Kneeling on the couch cushion beside him is a little precarious; you can’t get the image out of your head of what might happen if you lose your balance and tumble into his lap. You lean in to cover his opposite cheek with bright green, citrus-smelling paste and can’t avoid pressing your knee into the side of his thigh.

He doesn’t seem to mind; Bobo just keeps on studying your face while you work on his. His eyes are as intense as ever, but he seems to keep reminding himself to tone it down, to relax his jaw and make sure to appear more harmless. You avoid awkwardness by not quite letting him make eye contact with you, keeping your own gaze fixed on covering the small pores in his forehead, following the lines of his cheekbones, keeping the line of paste neat along the top edge of his beard. You wish you hadn’t put your own mask on already, so maybe he might be able to find you attractive right now.

Not, you know, that you want anything to happen tonight, right? Just, it would be pretty flattering if Bobo del Rey had the hots for you. It would be something you and the Earp girls could have a good laugh about tomorrow.

That’s all.

“It tingles,” Bobo comments. The low sound of his voice, so close, almost startles you as it interrupts your thoughts.

“It’s supposed to.” You risk eye contact to flash him the most winning version of your smile. “That’s how you know it’s working.” It’s encouraging how he chuckles a bit at your quip. So you keep chattering as you apply the final touches above his eyebrows. “Have you ever done one of these before?”

His smile is just a little shy. “I did get curious, picked one up once before. But it didn’t tingle like this.”

“This one is the best.” You lean back, inspecting your work. Bobo del Rey looks much less intimidating when he’s got his face covered like a teenage girl at a sleepover. But even that thought reminds you that this is your arch nemesis with his arms spread along the back of the couch, alone with you in your house, and plush bathrobe or no, he’s still a dangerous and unpredictable man.

His lip curls in an arrogant smile and he cocks his head, like he can smell your sudden rush of nerves. “I knew you’d take care of me tonight.” His fingertips dance over your knee, the one that’s been resting against him.

You stand up in a rush. “Your face is all done,” you announce. “I just need to get one more thing.”

In the kitchen, you try to catch your breath before opening the fridge to grab a cucumber for the eyelid covers. What is even happening right now? Your brain refuses to even try and interpret that touch Bobo gave you, your scattered thoughts sweeping you along with the next stage of the spa program instead.

“Have you got some glasses for this wine?” Bobo calls to you from the other room.

“O-of course.”

You chop four cucumber slices onto a plate, and grab two wine glasses by the stems that are thankfully actually clean. You’re feeling that tingling from the mask now too, unless things are just so awkward that your face is starting to go numb. ‘Spa night’ is starting to feel like ‘date night’ really damn quick.

Bobo plucks the glasses from your hand when you return. He’s already got the bottle open, and pours a generous portion of dark red liquid into each one as you sit down on the loveseat set at an angle to the couch he’s occupying. You slide the plate of cucumbers softly onto the coffee table.

He hands you a glass. “To past victories,” he says, tipping his own drink up in the space between you, “and to future conquests.”

The way he looks at you as he says it… shit. Still, you clink your glass against his and then take a hearty gulp of the wine as you try to decide what to say. Are you his next conquest? Or, even worse, you realize, is he trying to make an alliance here? Seduce you to some nefarious goal on his side of the moral line?

His eyes remain intent on your face. As you remove the edge of the glass from your lips, Bobo squares his shoulders in a way that reminds you of a cat watching some oblivious small animal as it gears up to pounce. The effect is only partially spoiled by the green shit covering both your faces.

You glance at the plate of cucumbers on the table, and his eyes follow yours.

“The final touch,” you explain. It’s also a perfect excuse to cut the tension. “Time to lie back and relax now.” You take your two slices and lean back on the loveseat. Just as you are about to put them over your eyes, you hear a soft ‘chomp’ sound.

You roll your neck and look over at Bobo. There is a big bite missing from one of his slices.

“Those weren’t for eating,” you say, lifting yours by the sides and holding them up in front of your eyes in demonstration.

“Oh, right.” Bobo actually looks a little sheepish. “What does that do again?”

A small giggle escapes your lips. “Honestly, I don’t really know? It’s just part of the aesthetic.”

Bobo’s grin is wide. “Thought you were just making me a snack.”

Somehow you are the one who feels embarrassed. “I’ll cut you some more,” you offer, already starting to get up, but he stops you with a hand on your arm.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Relax.” He pops his other slice into his mouth whole. “Don’t want to cover my eyes anyway.”

Honestly, the most terrifying thing is how nice he’s being. “Ok, if you’re sure,” you say politely, and settle back down into the loveseat. Whatever this is, all you can think to do is just go with it. “We’re supposed to leave the mask on for about ten more minutes.” You lay back, set the cucumbers over your own eyes, and do your best to relax with the palpable presence of your unexpected guest tingling over your shoulder.

The last thing he said, about not covering his eyes, tugs at your mind. You know that traumatized folks don’t often like to relax with their eyes closed, in an unfamiliar place. You can’t help but start to wonder what Bobo might have gone through after Wyatt Earp’s bullet sent him to hell. Or how many times an Earp descendent had sent him back there. What did it feel like to die like that, and more than once? Was hell all fire and brimstone, or were there a wider assortment of terrors that Bobo del Rey had endured?

The unpleasant thoughts make you feel twitchy. But it’s more sympathy than it is fear welling up in your heart, behind those uncomfortable prickles. You wish suddenly there was something you could do to ease this man’s pain. And then suppress a wild giggle, as you realize that this is the villain of your friend Wynonna’s story, who you’re sitting here hoping to offer comfort to. Is this really happening right now?

 

* * *

 

There’s another moment between you two, when Bobo follows you back to the bathroom to wash the mask treatments off. You give him the first turn at the sink, and he doesn’t leave the room after toweling off, while you bend over to rinse your own face.

Your eyes are squinted against the water running down from your forehead when you straighten back up. Bobo is standing closer than you thought he was, and there’s something almost intimate in the way he puts the driest corner of the towel he just used into your hands. You press it to your face quickly, and when you can see again, Bobo is inspecting his pores once more in the mirror. “I think that actually did something,” he announces, tracing spidery fingers down his own temple. He turns to you with a crooked smile. “I’m glowing, don’t you think?”

Something shifts in his expression as he regards your freshly-cleansed face, nodding up at him. You feel somehow naked under his gaze, like the exfoliant washed off some less-than-tangible layers of protection, leaving you more visible, more vulnerable. One of his rough hands scoops up your jaw, almost tenderly, and he tilts your head this way and that as he inspects your skin.

Your breath stopped as soon as he touched you. Part of you wants to glance over at the mirror, see what he is seeing, but you absolutely cannot tear your eyes from the hints of distant tenderness gracing Bobo’s face. “Worked on you too,” he says, voice almost a purr. “Not that you needed it.”

The compliment breaks the spell; you blush, and duck out of his hand. There was a pause just before you broke, a moment that felt like the part of a movie where two characters might kiss. And the ludicrousness of that happening in your lame little bathroom with Bobo del Rey was just too bizarre to sit still for.             

Bobo follows you out of the bathroom. “So what else happens on a spa day?”

You grasp for an idea as you retrieve your wine glass from the living room. “Manicures?”

Bobo curls his fingers to inspect his own hands. He’s got black polish on both his pinkies. “I am looking a little chipped.”

“I’ve got black,” you offer.

“Manicures it is.”

 

* * *

 

So now you’re sitting with Bobo on the big couch, files and little bottles of paint and chemicals laid out in front of you, holding his right hand between both of your own as you work on trimming his cuticles.

There was no denying your attraction to him now. The pull of him had led you to choose the seat alongside him on the same couch, to seize every opportunity for a casual touch even though each one made your heart leap into your throat. You realize you’ve set yourself on a dangerous path, leaving yourself within his reach like this. But maybe you like a little danger…

 You can’t help but wonder if Bobo only keeps one nail on each hand painted because he just can’t stand to be still for longer than it takes to do one. You’re just about wrestling his arm to keep him steady as you work; meanwhile he’s telling you some terrible story about a particularly wild night of drinking, and he just can’t resist punctuating every sentence with some kind of physical gesture, your manicure goals be damned.

“So by then, me and the boys decided it was time to high-tail it out of there,” he concludes, flipping his left hand wider to try and keep his right hand still. “But not without taking the horse with us.”

You chuckle, clutching his whole arm against your side to hold it steady, and wonder absently how long ago this story actually happened. Was it before Wyatt Earp killed him, or after? You’re afraid to ask.

When you’re done with his nails, Bobo traps your left hand between both of his own. “Massages are part of the spa thing too, right?” His voice rumbles low and makes the back of your neck prickle.

His thumbs start kneading into your palm; it feels so good that all protest dies on your tongue. A strangled little “mm-hm” comes out instead, its tone reminiscent of the cry of an animal caught up in a trap.

His fingers are skilled. And contemplating the strength in Bobo’s hands makes more than just your neck tingle. “Close your eyes,” he says, somewhere between suggestion and command.

What does Bobo want from you? What do you want from him? Even with your eyes closed, you can’t seem to follow any thoughts to a useful conclusion, not with the slide and press of his powerful fingers working down past your wrist, not with his presence filling the room, the feel of his breath on your cheek as he draws closer.

You’re nothing but a ball of hormones by the time you open your eyes, finding Bobo’s face not two inches away from your own. The want in his predator gaze is naked now, held back by barely a question. Your body answers with a rush better left untranslated into words. Words would only damn you; for letting an enemy in, for letting him fill you with such quivering, just-take-me-now lust.

Something changes in your face, some softening submission of the muscles that Bobo knows exactly how to read. His lips quirk, and then they cover your own.

His kiss is warm and sweet; not what you would ever have expected, but somehow fitting for the way tonight has gone. The soft nipping of his lips is enticing, coaxing, and just a breath away from actually pushy. Playing nice, like he knows that this is still happening against your better judgement, and he wants you to want him anyway.

And it’s working. You open your mouth to his curious tongue, taste the wine on his breath. One of his hands comes to the side of your face. Spidery fingers travel down your cheek, around your head to hold you steady, to pull you in closer.

You start to relax into the couch, slowly falling more and more into his body. You haven’t kissed like this since high school, when it was called “making out” and no one was ever sure if it was going to turn into something more. Bobo laces his fingers through your own, and you wonder how far you’re going to let him get with you tonight. His kiss stays slow, snaring you in more decidedly as every minute passes. His tongue works against yours with a playful sort of lust, stirring you deeper the longer you let this go on.

You still dread what’s going to come after this. You expected Bobo to have been more crass, and more direct, if he had come over here just to try and bang you. He wouldn’t have put up with all of this spa shit just to get into your pants, would he? He must want something else from you, to have taken such time with this seduction, to put such effort into making you feel comfortable with him in your house.

You should stop kissing him, and demand to know what he’s up to.

Your hands ignore the screaming of that rational part of yourself, smoothing across the black cotton that covers the hard planes of Bobo’s chest. He pulls the robe off your shoulders, and with a little shudder of defeat you let him take it the rest of the way off you, all the while keeping your lips locked onto his.

This is ok, because he started it. It’s not so bad if you just let him kiss you, right? Let his hands roam, let him push you back into the soft cushions of the couch. Just the villain of the story making you his victim, right? You’re not culpable, you’re not responsible. But you sure can enjoy it.

Bobo stops, pulling back just far enough to examine your face. “I knew you had a soft spot for old Bobo.” He tugs at your hips. “Come up here and straddle me. I want you in my lap, sweet thing.”

He won’t let you get away with being passive. A fresh rush sweeps through your body as you comply, a pleasure centering squarely between your hips. You feel drunk on your lust for him. And now, you also feel entirely on display, as Bobo leans back and drags his eyes over your body wiggling above him to find the most comfortable position with him between your thighs.

He shrugs out of his own robe, and then his hands follow his eyes along the bare skin of your limbs. You never thought it would feel so good for him to touch you, but you press your face back into his just so you don’t have to look at him looking at you anymore. His kiss is harder now, more insistent, and his hands roam more freely. He takes two handfuls of your ass and squeezes hard, pulling you closer. You’re really going to have to make a decision soon; this isn’t going to stay just kissing for long.

Then his fingers curl under the hem of your tank top, starting to pull it up. Now he’s trying to get you naked. Your elbows come in snugly against your own flanks, slowing him down. “We shouldn’t,” you say softly against his mouth. Your tone sounds half-hearted, even to you.

“We should,” Bobo replies with much more confidence, and tugs the fabric against your resistance. “What’s the point in taking this slow?”

What’s the point, indeed. A one-night stand sounds a lot more excusable than some kind of long-term seduction, some unspoken thing between the two of you across enemy lines… and it’s not like you’re holding out for him to buy the cow or anything. The idea of actually _dating_ Bobo del Rey is much more ludicrous than skipping to the end and fucking his brains out right now. Maybe you might as well just enjoy this strange night to the fullest.

Your hand finds his cock, almost of its own accord. You know he’s going to take this as encouragement, but you find that you absolutely cannot resist. The hard press of flesh under the crotch of his pants is enticing, and his length seems impressive as you slide your whole hand up and down the outline of his shaft.

Bobo rolls his neck and groans, distracted from trying to remove your shirt in favor of giving you room to work on him.

It’s absolutely entrancing to watch the effect you’re having on his face, how easily he cedes control in favor of closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of your fingers gripping him. He fumbles with something just above your hands, then you hear his belt buckle clink and you realize he’s opening his pants up for you in a silent offer.

This all becomes very, very real when you slide your palm under the elastic edge of his underwear, watch his eyelids flutter as you push past thick, silky hair and curl your fingers around his warm, naked shaft. A little thrill runs through you too, as you contemplate how absolutely large his cock is. Like you might be getting yourself into more than you can handle, in more ways than one.

Somehow you end up staring into each other’s eyes as you softly rock up and down on him, moving your whole body to get leverage on the monster in his pants. You watch Bobo’s eyes pool dark and drowning as you work him up, until you realize you’re just teasing a beast that’s about to devour you whole.

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. Then with a ragged groan, Bobo grabs your wrist, stilling your hand, and uses his entire body to lift you up and flip you over onto your back on the couch. You feel his teeth scraping against your neck a moment after impact, then with a wild, purring sort of growl he’s grinding his cock against your crotch and devouring all the skin between your ear and shoulder.

And just as you’re panting, letting him take your pants off you, just as you know that you want to let him have you, any way that he wants, you hear your front door creak open for your second uninvited guest of the night.

“Hey, Y/N,” Wynonna’s voice rings out from the next room, “got too drunk to drive back to the ranch tonight, is it cool if I crash here?” The high pitch of her voice, the edge of a giggle behind it, confirms her state of inebriation to you instantly.

Bobo rears up onto his hands above you, looking over the back of the couch at the open doorway to the kitchen, from which Wynonna’s voice emanates.

Wynonna keeps talking before you can think of anything to say, either to her or to Bobo. “Did you know that fur coat laying on your porch looks just like fucking Bobo del Rey’s?” she slurs.

This is so bad.

Bobo’s legs are still pinning yours to the couch, but you lift up onto your elbows underneath his looming torso, so you can at least see the doorway Wynonna is about to walk through. Bobo growls softly, one of his hands coming up to clutch around your back, grasping the nape of your neck from behind. Possessive? Or just irritated that he’s about to have to give up his new toy?

Wynonna’s eyes widen almost the instant she comes into the room, as she recognizes both of the faces peering up at her over the back of the couch. “Wha—OH MY GOD!” your drunken friend shouts.

Her hand scrambles at her hip. You have one moment to curse as you realize she’s going for Peacemaker. She probably thinks Bobo’s on top of you without your consent, given the way her eyes are flashing dark and angry. “Wynonna, wait!” you cry, though you can see that your words don’t register.

“Back the fuck off, Bobo, and get up right fucking now,” Wynonna orders, even though she’s sloppy getting Peacemaker out of the holster. She steadies it with both hands, the muzzle already glowing gold.

Bobo’s whole body flares hot when his revenant face burns through in the presence of his mystical bane. You think you hear him growl “Mine!” as his grip pulls you in tighter, his right hand flying out for that nifty telekinetic defense he has.

His arm cuts to side, and Peacemaker is flung at the same speed toward the wall. Drunken Wynonna stays attached to it somehow, hurtling a few feet before they both clatter to the floor.

“Bobo,” you scold, glaring up at him from your intimate angle. “Same team, isn’t that what you said?”

He’s still in revenant mode when he peers back down on you, and the effect is chilling. His face fades back to human as quickly as he can swallow that darkness back, but you’re still shaken, and he can see it. Regret tinges the corners of his eyes as he observes your reaction to him. “She was gonna shoot me,” he whines, retreating into his characteristic irreverence.

“She wanted to protect her friend. In her defense, this doesn’t look good.”

“I was thinking it looked very good,” Bobo rumbles back, eyes sweeping down the lines of your intermingling bodies, both your pants halfway off, intriguing bits of flesh exposed and others pressed together still.

You chuff at the unexpected flattery, looking away from the promise that’s still there in his eyes when they lock onto yours again. “Wynonna,” you call over to the section of floor where you saw her go down, “it’s alright. He wasn’t hurting me. You ok?”

An ornery grumble emanates up from behind the couch. “Like hell he wasn’t….” You hear her scrambling around on the floor.

“You’d better go,” you whisper quickly to Bobo. “You can’t reason with her when she’s like this.”

He looks ready to argue at first, but you see his eyes clear up as, one can only assume, he finally realizes the mood has been ruined.

He reaches down. You’re assuming it’s so he can pull his pants back up, but he finds your hand and laces his fingers into yours instead. You’re speechless as he lifts your knuckles to his lips in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly kiss. “Well then, until next time,” he murmurs, voice so low and throaty that it wraps around you like an overly-affectionate cat.

There’s a little smirk left on his face as he rises to his feet, buckling his belt back on while staring at the confused and panting mess he’s left of you on your living room couch.

“I swear to God, Bobo,” Wynonna snarls from behind you, killing even that last little moment, “if you don’t get the fuck out of this house right now—”

“Oh, keep your panties on, Wynonna,” Bobo snaps back. “You don’t want me to just run out on your friend, without even a polite goodbye, do you? After what we were just getting up to, that would just be rude.” He zips his pants back up loudly, making sure Wynonna can’t misunderstand what she had interrupted. “The last thing I want is to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“OUT.” Wynonna climbs to her feet, finally with a sure grip on Peacemaker again.

With two fingers on his lips, Bobo blows you a kiss before he hops to it, backing away from Wynonna’s glare and toward the open door. You imagine he’s trying to get out of your sight before that gun turns his face all red and black and glow-y again.

There’s a little hollow behind your chest as you watch him leave, and a disappointed aching remaining down south. But really, maybe it’s better for him to get kicked out so suddenly. So you didn’t have to hear him say something soft, make promises he wouldn’t keep. Or be disappointed when he didn’t do those things. Or so you wouldn’t have to hear whatever evil proposition you expected was likely to come after the sex. Bye-bye, Bobo.

Now the only one you’re left having to talk to is the woman holding the gun in the other corner of the room. As she turns to you, her face is so twisted up in confusion that she looks almost pained. “Are you really ok?” she asks.

A heavy sigh, more than a little shamed, bursts from your lungs. “Yeah, I really am.”

She keeps staring at you, sitting up now on the couch with your clothes askew. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

Time to try and explain. “Wynonna—”

She cuts you off with a wave of her hand. “I’m too drunk to talk about what I just witnessed.” She holsters Peacemaker. “Or maybe too sober.” She grimaces. “Fucking _Bobo_?”

“Well, we weren’t exactly fucking—”

“Nope!” she interrupts again, drawing the word out with exaggerated flair. “Definitely can’t do this tonight. Get some sleep. Both of us. Maybe we can talk about it over coffee in the morning. Or bloody marys. Or maybe just our own graves. Cuz I’m really thinking I’d like to never talk about this one.”

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt (I can't take credit for some of the best ideas in here):  
> Imagine he overhears you telling the girls that you'll treat yourself to a home spa day after the latest evil had been turned to dust. Next thing you know, you hear some noise while you're relaxing in your bathtub and suddenly Bobo stands in the doorway, a bottle of wine in hand and a dirty grin on his face. "I thought I'd come by and help you relax." 😏 I just can't see him keeping his hands still for more than ten seconds, so I kinda can't see a manicure. But I can see him with a face mask on. He'll eat the cucumber slices that are supposed to go on his eyes though. 😁


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